


the cataclysmic paradox

by symphorophilia (klismaphilia)



Category: Original Work, Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Betrayal, Brutal Murder, Character Study, Dark Jedi Consular, Dark Sith Inquisitor, Delusions, Emotional Manipulation, Gen, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Identity Issues, Implied/Referenced Torture, Internal Conflict, Loss of Control, Masochism, Mental Breakdown, Mental Instability, Multi, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Linear Narrative, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Past Rape/Non-con, Psychological Trauma, Sadism, Wrongful Imprisonment
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-01
Updated: 2017-11-01
Packaged: 2019-01-28 01:36:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12595136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/klismaphilia/pseuds/symphorophilia
Summary: Centuries ago, on the planet of Nar Shaddaa, two children were born at the dog-end of the coldest year the galaxy had ever seen, given life through the sacrifice of a slave mother and the selfishness of a Jedi father.Though both would long outlive the history of their birth, it seems pertinent to say that death might have been a kinder fate to both Darth Nox and the Barsen’thor of the Jedi Order, in contrast to the suffering they were made to experience.Sometimes, the fate of a burdened existence is more cruel than an early demise.





	the cataclysmic paradox

**Author's Note:**

> and here we go... my nanowrimo project for 2017. wow, it's been an interesting journey to write this piece-- believe me when I say that it's been very emotional for me, even almost cathartic in a sense, for me to work on editing this story to a point where I was alright enough to share it with everyone. I hope that anyone who chooses to follow me through the next couple chapters of this is able to gain some sort of sense from it, as my writing has been in a state of decline for awhile now... 
> 
> nonetheless, here we are. chapter one of "the cataclysmic paradox", or as I like to affectionately call it, my Evil Twin Emperors AU. thanks to anyone who's reading. take heed of the warnings, as they will be updated each chapter.

 

**i. entwined**

**...**

 

 

In the beginning, there were two.

Not a master and apprentice, nor a pair of lovers-- no, there were two children. Twins, born at the dog-end of the coldest year the galaxy had ever seen to a slave mother and a Jedi father on the planet of Nar Shaddaa. The night was a dark one, only offset by the mesmerizing, wicked glow of flashing signs and dim red lights. There were no stars to be seen in the sky, nothing at all save for the flickering glare of broken promises which laid on Nar Shaddaa’s red light sector the weight of the entire universe.

Nar Shaddaa was a crime underworld, birthplace of the galaxy’s most depraved criminals, overrun with the cesspits of the once-prosperous Hutt cartel. The Jedi had come for negotiations, distant from the ways of the Council and the rules which had long governed him-- months ago he'd taken up gambling, quit answering his comm. The Council, for a brief period, thought him dead. And so, in spite of his previous activities, the man returned to Coruscant before he could meet his own children, no longer wasting thought on the young, Mirialan slave girl who would give birth to his sons.

Her name was Kana, and though one child would remember it with a half-fledged pity and a heavy heart, it was a name that would die alongside her: known by only two in the entire galaxy.

Her sons’ names, however, would grow to inspire fear: at each breath of their titles while they lived, at each reminder of the dark stains they had etched into galactic history, carved in with a dull, blunted knife so as to never be forgotten.

The older of the twins was born at the night's end, underneath the dark blanket of a dusky night, and given the name Irinei.

The younger twin, who would open his eyes to the world at the crack of dawn, to see the haze of oranges and pinks from morning sky dissolve into a dark, bloody red, would be named Isosei.

Though both would long outlive the history of their birth, it seems pertinent to say that death might have been a kinder fate to both Darth Nox and the Barsen’thor of the Jedi Order, in contrast to the suffering they were made to experience.

Sometimes, the fate of a burdened existence is more cruel than an early demise.

 

* * *

 

 

Isosei Jivai is a Jedi.

Isosei Jivai is a Jedi, and his life is a rulebook. He adheres to schedules and laws and a stringent code, does as he is told to do, and speaks as he is supposed to speak. He keeps his head facing the floor when he is berated by the Council, and digs nails into the flesh of his palm when he hears them speak about him as though he isn’t in the same room at all.

He is disciplined, because without discipline, there would be no _order_ in the galaxy. _And who,_ they say, _will protect the galaxy from destruction if not the Jedi? If not the promoters of peace and good will, those who would lay their lightsabers on the ground and face death in acknowledgement rather than fight or struggle? Who would take blow upon blow defending the Republic and the freedom it symbolizes?_

Isosei Jivai is a Jedi, and he abhors it.

He cannot remember exactly what it felt like, _freedom..._ all he remembers is restraint. The restraint of the Jedi Code, the demands of his masters to contain your anger and respect your enemy and do not fight unless you have no other choice. He remembers wishing, so desperately, that he could tear himself apart-- tear his fellow padawans apart-- if only to escape the hatred inside him, and the pain that tore through his heart and poisoned his blood. Being injected with apathy for so long had made him want to die, want to kill-- and eventually he’d done it.

He remembers receiving word of Master Yuon’s death. Remembers, particularly, a letter he’d received not long after Parkanas’ demise, listing the names of _hundreds_ of Jedi, Master after Master having succumbed to the disease of their madness. He remembered crushing it until the paper crumpled inside his fist, until his eyes snapped open and the wall in front of him was dented with the sheer force of his enmity.

He remembers how so many died because he could not forgive. He could not pardon. He could not… _repress._

But, just as with everything else, he tosses the letter aside, files the memory away into a locked safe, tightly kept in the back corner of his mind. He returns to the council, and he listens, and he smothers the darkness from himself until the day when he has no option but to let it re-emerge.

 

* * *

 

 

Irinei Jivai is a Sith.

Or, rather, he is a Sith only in name-- because beneath the outer corruption that has settled so deeply inside his bones he can no longer function without channeling his madness, he is still little more than a _slave._ A dim-witted plaything meant to be cast aside, if not used by those with greater power to their name. Irinei Jivai is a slave, and he lives his life as a shadow.

He carries out the dirty work of other Sith as much as himself: murder, torture, interrogation, thievery. The blood of thousands must stain his hands, if not more-- dripping in rivulets to the ground beneath him, coating his face, his arms, his scarred back, and no wonder they think him a savage, when he is always so filthy, so revolting, so… chaotic. But what would a Sith be without a strong stomach? What would a Sith be without the will to slaughter in cold blood? Have him stand before a hundred men, a thousand, the galaxy’s armies in their entirety-- he’ll kill them _all_ , spread the reach of his animosity so far that it encompasses even the unknown regions and half the galaxy lies **dead** at his feet.

Irinei Jivai is, regardless of what others might whisper, in low voices behind his back, _a Sith._

And he lives for bloodshed.

Sometimes he has fantasies of bathing in a sea of red, drowning in a mess of organs and writhing bodies underneath pure, vibrant starlight-- as if his own demise will somehow allow him reprieve from the sickness rooted in his head, clinging to his insides and clawing through the muscles of his chest as it screeches, _let me out, let me play, let me kill!_ He longs for something long since gone, a harrowing, gutwrenching pain that had seemed a curse at the time he’d first known it. He thinks of being shackled, tied down and thrown carelessly onto the floor like a useless toy or a manipulable puppet, kicked and smacked about until his green skin turns blue with the force of it. He thinks of being taken, fully, prostrated and _abused_ before a demanding, faceless master, pushed onto his knees and choked until his mind is a hazy, thoughtless mess, and his memories lie strewn in fragments.

He has known his freedom, now, but it is not enough. It never will be.

He remembers what it was like, using his power to strike others down, to leave them burning and writhing, screaming under the scorching heat of his red blade; he remembers when he killed his peers in the Sith Academy, when he overpowered his former master and made Zash flail like the dying snake she was. He remembers the feeling of consuming his first spirit, how his body lit and sparked with the flame of enlightenment, of growing strength.

But he remembers, too, what it was like to be caged. To be owned. To be… _helpless._ And that weakness is something not easily forgotten.

 

* * *

 

 

When Isosei is twenty-five years old, he experiences passion.

They send him to Balmorra, after Master Yuon’s death, and it’s as if history is desperate to repeat itself. His mind is unraveling with every second he wastes in that warzone, stepping around corpses that are strewn across the entirety of the landscape, pulling injured troopers out of battle and into medbays, even as his patience wears and his exhaustion grows. He has never felt so tired, nor so weak-- something about the emotion nags at his brain, but Isosei has become a master in stifling his emotions, if nothing else. There is no emotion, there is peace. There is no emotion, there is--

Death.

Because it’s everywhere, all at once, and though he’s no stranger to bloodied limbs and oozing wounds, not anymore, it’s too unbalancing, too distracting. And it’s only when he meets Darth Lachris that the anger begins to spill out, to hiss and spit like a caged animal as he withdraws his lightsaber and nearly spits at her. But Lachris only cackles, mad with her own sadism, and Isosei can hardly remember anything besides chaos, and _you killed them_ , and _Sith_ and **_you’re going to suffer, you deserve to suffer, you deserve to BURN._**

And so, without another thought, he tears her apart.

It’s passion, a passion he’s only feeling now, for the first time in years and possibly his entire life. The sensation is much like biting into a forbidden fruit, the frenzied screams and half-coherent shouts of the fallen Sith laid before him on the ground satisfying his mind in a way nothing has before. And oh, how his mind _sings_ with the release of his anger, the knowledge that _now, just this once,_ he can be undisciplined-- because this woman is Sith, and she has done horrible things, and how terrible could Isosei truly be for enacting justice on a monster? How wrong is it of him to kill a deranged slaver, a loathsome thing that corrupts others for no reason but to satiate her own thirst for power? How is it wrong to answer violence with violence?

But still, he cannot help the way self-loathing bleeds out of his own body when Lachris speaks her last words to him. “Your eyes--” she cackles. “You’ve been a very _naughty_ little Jedi, haven’t you?”

_What would your council say?_

If he tortures Lachris, nobody has to know. They do not have to know about the way he started with her wrists, and took off her hands first, so she could no longer wield a weapon. They do not have to know that he gouged out the Sith’s eyes and left her in a pool of her own blood, choking from her own mutilated fingers being forced down her throat.

And the shame he feels, after-- well, _that_ is his own.

He knows that he should tell the council. Isosei knows, above all, that he should ask forgiveness, that he should repent for his crimes or sit in confinement for months on end, meditating and reminiscing on the code, atoning for his wrongdoings. He knows that he should not feel so much, anger nor guilt, and that the war between the two is _splitting him in half…!_

He swallows his thoughts. He bites his tongue, and he says nothing.

They name him Barsen’thor of the Jedi Order.

 

* * *

 

 

Irinei was thirty when he became Sith.

A slave drowning in the filth of back-street alleys and vibrant, materialistic casinos, with absolutely nothing to his name. No money. No material possessions. No family. No _purpose,_ other than to throw himself at the feet of his betters and grovel like the diseased creature he was, some alien whore only desirable for his body, slim-waisted and long-legged and _pretty,_ even in comparison to most of his species’ women. He doesn’t even recall how many people he’s slept with, how many time he’s been manipulated, or degraded, or made into an object to satisfy another’s whims. What he does know is that, before he takes his seat on the Dark Council, he has never truly understood what it means to feel victorious.

Oh, sure, he’d become Sith-- and spent _years_ dragging himself up by pulling on the bootstraps of others, forced to kneel and press his face into the dirt of the ground as he was told, time and time again, how weak, how revolting, how pathetic he was.

“Remember your place, _slave.”_ They would tell him, as they thrust their foot into the space between his shoulderblades, as they took credit for work which he had rightfully done, cast him aside so they could claim his achievements and ignore the blighted, scorned boy in the corner until they were made to deal with him.

Say what they would about Thanaton, at least the blasted fool had paid him mind enough to realize the danger Irinei posed.

He takes the name Darth Nox with a wounded pride, mindful of exactly who it came from-- the very Sith who had once spoken his name with disdain, told him he was unfit to be an apprentice, hardly the right caliber for a Sith Lord. Never mind that his bloodline was overwhelmed with the darkness, that he himself was boundless with it and so full of hate that even his Overseers were baffled. _“Cruel, clever child,”_ they had called him, “ _wicked is the ichor that laces his veins.”_

“For our first order of business,” he tells his apprentice, “I want to spill the blood of my naysayers.”

Irinei Jivai is thirty-six when he sheds his former identity, and whatever innocence might have remained within the pragmatic, irreverent little Nar Shaddaan slave.

He is thirty-six when he becomes Darth Nox.

 

* * *

 

 

Isosei is scorned when he turns thirty-seven.

There are whispers, passed around behind his back, just as there have been since he’d killed Master Syo Bakarn. Never mind that it had taken him years to track down the Children of the Emperor, nor that the Jedi had thought him reverent when he returned to Coruscant in the aftermath-- no, he supposes. Alliances always fail. And the Jedi have always been nothing if not two-faced.

 _Maybe he’s one himself,_ a padawan hisses to her friend. _A Child of the Emperor._

And it isn’t all that wrong, he supposes. _Because I’m even worse than Master Syo._

At least Syo hadn’t been aware of his actions. At least he hadn’t been… a maniac. No, it was the Emperor who drove him to the point of destruction, of sabotage and murder. And what excuse did the Barsen’thor have? Uncontrollable rage? Untapped madness?

He meets the Dread Masters that same year, caught by surprise while cleaning up the Republic’s mess on Belsavis. _(What does he do besides clean up the messes of others, adhere to their favors and gift the undeserving, just as the Jedi tell him to?)_ His mind is already weary, ten days off from sleep and ten hours to shutting down-- but force, can he feel his blood sing when they call to him.

_You can claim what you wish, but we know the joy you experienced in slaughtering your brethren on Corellia, Jedi._

It is wrong of him, he supposes, that the words ring true, that they call to a simple, unyielding darkness which is too easily drawn from his body, too easily felt. But it is there-- even when he is following orders, when he is promoting diplomacy, Isosei cannot help but notice the unease crawling inside him, the doubt and the weariness taking root with each of his actions. He cannot help but feel pride, and bloodlust, as he kills time and time again to slake his own thirst for pain…

And when he is restrained, arms pulled taut behind his back as a needle is pushed into the side of his neck, by his own people, the Consular cannot help but feel that perhaps, it is a fate well-deserved. No matter his allegiance… no matter his devotion. He will never be capable of smothering the monster that dwells inside his mind.

But it hardly keeps him from trying when he stares up into the eyes of this traitorous former Jedi Master and sees the gold inside their glare. And _oh_ , how his own darkness lights with the realization, eager to break loose and _play_ with his enemy, to strike him down and render his head free of his body, to take him apart _tooth by tooth, limb by limb…_

“Don’t worry, Barsen’thor,” the traitor spits on him, slamming the toe of his boot into Isosei’s already aching ribcage, watching as the former Jedi topples to the ground, a thin line of blood trailing from his mouth and down over his chin. “I’ll make sure they take _real_ good care of you here. Anyone who can play games with people the way you have deserves special attention.”

 _“I never lied to you,”_ he gurgles from between broken teeth and a mouth full of blood.

“So you’re not the one who freed the Dread Masters?” He smirks. “You didn’t kill _hundreds_ of your own people in cold blood, didn’t betray the trust of the Jedi Council by committing treason against both the Order and the Republic?” There’s a bark of laughter. “You make me _sick.”_

He doesn’t protest it when they drag him away, and how would he be able to resist anyhow, with the force purged from his body and his mind still half-empty? His life blood is boiling and spitting, ignited like an uncontrollable fire longing to subsume everything laid before it-- and as he is thrown unceremoniously into a black, unlit cell, wrestled from his robes and assailed by frigid water, Isosei clenches his fists, grits his teeth… and gives in.

It’s as if he can still hear their voices, whispering to him.

_You will not deny the truth when you have been humbled, stripped of all but your fear. When you allow the darkness to find you, rather than fruitlessly lying to yourself to save your own flesh, then we will come. Perhaps, then, you will be ready to join us._

 

* * *

 

 

At thirty-nine, Irinei is a perpetrator of fear… and a bringer of war.

For months, he has lived only to commit siege after siege on war-torn planets, causing devastation on battlefields and in grand cities, killing any whom he deems liability, threat or hindrance. None can escape the wrath of his blade, nor the lightning that springs from his fingertips when he feels slighted. The ever-building pressure inside him has led to a jaded outlook and indifferent approach to living; he can torture somebody and feel nothing, now. The very concept of empathy has been purged from his bones through constant debasement and belittlement which Irinei cannot escape.

But, then, he supposes, he doesn’t care to escape; he does not want to be free of the little he has with which to anchor himself. He merely desires a challenger, somebody both foolish and strong enough to deny his power, to once again have the strength to cage him and bring him to heel. Obedience, of course, was second nature to him, once-- in a different life than this one where he kills for fun, just _kills and kills and kills_ so often that it’s grown lackluster.

There’s a growl in his gut. It was compelling, made Darth Nox want to stop it at the roots, but there are no needles here, no medicine to keep his internal sickness at bay, and even if he’d had any, his body could not stomach a cure. His mouth burns, the sore inside his cheek burst open and nostrils subsumed with the sickly smell of pus as his mouth is scorched _raw_ with disease…

His voice seems to no longer remain in his throat, mind only full of futile, empty sorrow, whispers he can't quite make out. Abnormal. Undesirable. Useless. Mistake. Volatile.

It is months before he breaks, choking on a callous sob, the ice blossoming like venom in his veins, his head unable to escape any of the chaos he could hear. It rung through his bones like a haunting caress of violent melody, stealing every inch of sanity from his body, every atom alight with pain… _I failed. I have failed to become truly… divine. Truly seraphic._

There was absolutely nothing in this galaxy that presented any worth, to the Inquisitor: faith meant nothing, familial ties meant nothing, the power of authority meant nothing… and, most certainly, **he** meant nothing. _Despicable fool, useless coward. Worthless slut. Inane dictator._

In his growing instability, Irinei wants nothing more than to cling to somebody’s side, press his face deep into their neck and inhale their scent, curl into a writhing mass of black against their body and grip tight to their ribcage, bite at their skin, tear it open and drown inside their embrace. He wants, with futility, to be held and broken and devoured under the heat of another person, to watch a sentient being smile at him, kiss his forehead and tell him he was…

Lovely.

But as much as he longs for attention, for affection and _veneration,_ his power calls for blood, the spilling of it, the consuming of it, the demand of it. So, this night, in a dim cantina hidden away by the crowded Corellian streets, as Darth Nox rings the life from a bartender’s twitching body, he focuses on nothing but the feel of killing. He relishes in the life he takes, imagining it to be _himself_ with hands around his throat, skewered by a caustic, spiteful blade.

There was nothing for him in this universe but apathy.

He turns on his heel and walks, uncaring, to the door.

Under the cover of darkness, his thoughts always became too apparent-- in the night, Irinei can think of nothing but his true self, his inner longings and his eternal desire. It’s akin to the feeling of standing on a precipice, screaming obscenities and secrets alike into the void for all of eternity…

Except, this time, he is not alone.

Somebody is screaming back.

**_… cowards, all of them, should be lain to waste and taken apart, piece by piece, should be destroyed indefinitely, oh, how asinine it was of them to cage me--!_ **

The words stop. The voice shifts, turning, it seemed, to Irinei’s own presence.

**_Who… are you?_ **

He feels familiar. The sheer force of their mental connection is overwhelming, and Darth Nox is nearly reeling with it, the power that surrounds him, the anger which assaults him-- he falls to his knees, bent over and retching as he tries to purge whatever spirit this is that lingers inside his skin. The residual agony feels similar to being misshapen, torn asunder and plastered together about himself, his violent gagging only growing louder as Nox finally presses his forehead to the ground and empties the non-existent contents of his stomach onto the open street.

Bile. Acid. Streams of it, leaking from his mouth and staining his face, plastered to his skin, such a disgusting disease he scarcely knew what to do with it. Nothing seemed coherent anymore, nor sensical… he felt...

Emptiness.

 _I am Darth Nox,_ he answers, because this sensation is dizzying, eating away at him from the inside, and he craves it, oh, how he craves. Irinei pulls himself away from the mess he’s made, stumbling backward to lean tiredly against a crumbling wall as he tries to regain his breath. _I am… pain, self-loathing, weakness, decay, envy, longing…!_

The presence does not respond for moments, but he can feel it hovering, as though it’s rifling through the disorganized clutter of his mind, trying to find something besides--!

 _It’s you,_ Irinei manages, clutching at his own throat, at his own abdomen, while the anger begins to burst from behind the clumsily-built mental barrier he’d tried to construct. _It’s you, Isosei, you’re alive, how are you alive? How are you…_

He cuts himself off. _Jedi._

 ** _Hello, brother…_** the presence acknowledges, finally, and the Inquisitor’s mind fills with static, as his entire body lights with pain, tensing up and bursting from every nerve, his thoughts tipping closer toward a pleasant, welcoming unconsciousness. **_… I apologize for not seeking you out sooner. Our parents did us quite a disservice._**

Irinei shudders, tucking himself into a ball atop the filthy ground, still quivering in the aftermath of the lovely, brilliant, ecstatic pain.

_You… you were-- living-- while I… while I was left in a metal box… while I was… whipped, and-- coveted for my body, and my master’s debts were bled out of me… you… you left me! You would have left me to die a slave! I’ll kill you, Jedi, I’ll kill you, I--_

**_Hush._ **

Irinei can almost feel a phantom hand, running through his hair, squeezing tight around his throat as his mind slows, halting mid-thought.

_I will be seeing you… very soon, Darth Nox. Very soon…_

**Darkness.**

 

* * *

 

 

The brothers are in their middle age when they meet, for the first time since their fifth year, within the ruins of a forgotten sector of Belsavis prison.

The man once called Irinei Jivai is now, simply, Venereth: disgraced and diseased by his affliction with inner calamity. His once-emerald flesh has taken on a sickly, green-grey hue, nearly colorless in comparison to the once vibrant tone of his youth. Veins stand prominent beneath his skin, like cobwebs layering his cheeks and raindrops sliding down his neck, blue and cold and utterly odious. He looks like a dead thing more than a conscious, breathing organism, a slighted, tormented creature strangled by means of his own ambition.

He looks like a Sith.

But Isosei Jivai does not look the part of a Jedi. No, he looks sickly too, and weak, and impossibly, irrevocably, infinitely exhausted. As though the galaxy itself has laid its burdens across his shoulders and caused his back to bend unnaturally out of shape. His face is scarred, and ghastly, unhealed wounds line the expanse of his torso where it is visible underneath his prison robes. The white cloth does little in shielding his flesh from that which desires to harm it, but it suits the darkness of his green skin as much as it does the lines of his own tattoos, not as stark as his brother’s, but just as intricate. He is standing, when he hears Venereth’s footsteps in the hallway, facing the door with a tight-lipped smile, demure as it could possibly be.

He has, after all, learned to manipulate from the best liars in all the galaxy.

The rock before him crumbles. Isosei raises his head.

Dull, surfeited yellow eyes meet the bright, insipid red of the Dark Lord’s contumacious gaze-- and Venereth stops moving.

Isosei does not think it his imagination when he sees his brother’s eyes well with tears, sees how his lightsaber nearly slips loose of his hand as he halts in the doorway, unstable and conflicted. The outline of his brittle, slight waist is apparent underneath even the ill-fitting garments he wears, and his shoulders seem to go rigid in a telling fear that he cannot manage to hide.

Isosei supposes that it doesn’t matter, after all-- Venereth was never taught how to properly restrain himself, how to shield his mind, or disguise his emotions. No, he was a deranged, cacophonous mess, so open that it could scar, that his very emotions might maim or murder those who sought to challenge him. They would always view Irinei as a disobedient slave, but _pfaask,_ did he wear his scorn well, letting his hatred be the very thing which fueled his dominion.

Isosei takes a step away from the empty carbonite chamber behind him, allowing his head to tilt, ever so slightly, in greeting.

“I knew you would come for me… _brother.”_

“Isosei…”

“Shh, shh. It’s alright, Nox-- you don’t need to say anything. I know how overwhelming this must be for you…”

Venereth’s jaw locks, his glare intensifying. “You know nothing! Not of me, nor anyone else, _Barsen’thor.”_ He spits the title as though it is something disgusting, lodged in his throat deep enough to cause him grief. Lightning crackles around his body, sparking from his fingers and surging through his palms. “I _hate_ you. What made you so much better than me? Why did he choose you to free, you to train? Years, Isosei. _Years_ I spent, being shackled and beaten and broken in, having my master’s friends use my body until I could hardly walk, acting as if I was a _bargaining chip_ for petty underworld deals, dancing in cantinas and hauling around their supplies and watching them shoot my friends for sport. Do you even realize how much I **envy** you? How much I wish you dead, if only so _I_ could be the better twin!”

He shakes his head, red lightsaber clattering to the cold, rock floor under their feet.

“Look at me, Isosei… _look at me!_ I never even met you… and still, I feel-- slighted. I will always be the weaker of us…”

Isosei reaches for his brother’s shaking arms, laying a hand on either of his biceps as Venereth shakes through disjointed sobs, a pained whimper leaving his chest. _“Why did I have to be the slave?”_

“Because _you_ were the strong one, Irinei.”

Isosei grasps his jaw, pressing his head up until the Sith was staring him in the eye, before he stepped back, shrugging his shoulders. “That’s what our mother told you. You said it yourself, didn’t you, when we first spoke? That she kept you because you were strong. Because you could survive anything.” He smirked, turning away from his stunned sibling. “And she wasn’t wrong, was she?”

“Isosei… brother…” the Inquisitor’s eyes slip closed, his breathing uneven, though steadier than before. “Don’t leave me again. We’re family-- you’re my family, you have to care about me. You have to see me, to see my wickedness, my power, my chaos-- I can slaughter everyone, I can, all of the fools who put you here, all of my enemies, those who doubted me, who slandered me! I’m immortal now, I can make you immortal too, I can _destroy_ them. Just don’t make me suffer alone.”

He drops, then, onto his knees, bones cracking as his body hits the floor, still waiting for the Consular to respond-- a word, a promise, a goodbye. Anything to end the silence.

And when Darth Nox opened his eyes, his brother was grinning.

“I know your power, Venereth. And I know how much it _hurts_.”

He considers his own torn palms and gritted teeth, considers the anger he’d always felt as a padawan and never been able to channel. Isosei thinks of all the words he is not allowed to say, all the feelings he has never been able to express, and thinks of how he’d pulled them into himself and repressed them so deeply that they’d become a part of his very soul itself. He remembers the joy of his first kill, and the shame that came after, his frustration with his own mind for being so improper _, so unlike a Jedi,_ and the frustration with the Order for demanding he get rid of any part of himself that he still had, whittling away at the framework which allowed him stability until he’d become as numb and as cold as the carbonite he’d been frozen in.

But the years of his penitence have given Isosei ample time to think, time that Venereth has never truly had. Because despite their age, his brother is still so _young_... and so insecure.

“I can help end your suffering,” Isosei promises. “I have the ability to make it vanish-- all the pain, the fear, the uncertainty… I can _heal_ you, Irinei. You’re so far above the rest of these fools-- so chaotic, so destructive. After all, you’ve even consumed death itself, haven’t you, brother?”

He placed a lightsaber-- banged up and chipped along the hilt, warm to the very touch-- face up into Venereth’s open palm, helping the Inquisitor to curl his fingers around his weapon once again.

“But… ah, that _is_ what ails you, isn’t it? A need to be subjugated… _injured._ To feel the physical pain counteract your emotion, to be under another’s control entirely, let them take care of you, let them instruct you…” Isosei bent down, crouching on one knee as he looked calmly into Venereth’s terrified, crazed expression. “I could teach you, Venereth. I could advise you… together we could be _invincible_. Between my ingenuity and your alacrity? _Nothing_ in this galaxy would be capable of stopping the force of our power.”

“T-together,” Venereth nodded, glancing back to his lightsaber. “Yes, Isosei… we could… rule. We could be  _Gods_ among the stars. Look! Already, I feel my energy renewing itself… I feel… voracious.”

The Consular gripped his sibling’s hand, pulling Venereth to his feet along with him, waiting for the Sith to stand before clasping his shoulder and offering as much condolence as his body would allow.

“My brilliant, wicked brother.” He murmured. “Don’t fret on **_lesser beings_**. Soon enough they will all bow at your feet...’” His lips twitch at the corners, until they’ve set in a secretive smile. “Now, I believe you mentioned something about ‘slaughter.’ Shall we?”

 

* * *

 

 

There could only be one word that would accurately describe the state of the galaxy, moving into a new era: dread.

Dread, for the decimation of Coruscant and Dromund Kaas, dread for the disbanding of the system which has upheld both ideals of Empire and Republic, dark and light, for millenia without end. Some might say that the dread was seeded through chaos and the blood spilled over the violent slaughter that fell on both the Sith and the Jedi after the fall of Emperor Vitiate-- but that was not the case. No, this particular brand of dread was a manifestation of order, an order like absolutely no other; enforced and demanded and laid down under a guise of freedom. It was something as incomprehensible as it was volatile; that was what inspired _terror._

Isosei Jivai had disappeared from the known reaches of the galaxy for over a decade after the Jedi Council massacre; the title Barsen’thor had died alongside the knowledge of his legacy, buried deep inside the jungles of Tython once the Jedi had found the strength to reform. Knowledge so dangerous must be buried, the remaining Masters had agreed, for the good of the galaxy. And so, much like Master Syo Bakarn, ‘Jedi Consular Isosei Jivai’ was never spoken of, pushed from the minds of those who could not admit the failure of their stringent, oppressive code.

Darth Nox, on the other hand, was very much _alive_ … and the reminder of his existence was everywhere.

Had it not been enough for Nox to stand in front of the council, holding Darth Ravage’s severed head out like an offering, his vicious insults and outcry of insanity were broadcast to the public not long after-- the holonet was swarmed with messages of fear and terror as much as a zealous, deranged hope inspired among the younger generation of Sith at the disband of tradition. Nox professed that there would be no tradition: no, instead there would be freedom. Freedom for madness. Freedom for reverence. Freedom for _anger,_ and all that it could entail.

His words were like a poison that bit into the remnants of either side, just as much as the downfall of the Eternal Empire when the war came to pass, and the spirit of Valkorion was consumed by Darth Nox himself. He was no longer a mere _Sith Inquisitor_ , no longer a **_slave,_ ** he had spat as he stood before a camera, his shadow projected across the seat of the Eternal Throne.

“There is _nothing_ for this galaxy in the chains of its oppressors. No, the Sith code even professes that we must break our bonds through victory-- and _that_ is what I give you. Endless victory, endless celebration! Praised be the divine conqueror who _gifts_ instead of commands. This galaxy operates on the wants of its leaders, does it not? I say to you, my people: fight. _Fight,_ and take what is rightfully yours! Personal freedom. Personal reparation. Never again shall you bow your heads in shame! Never again will we watch, and wait, and _suffer_ under those unfit bunch who think themselves kings. I am a **god** \-- I am your _seraphic lord_ , the divine shroud of darkness that will protect as much as I conquer. No more slavery, no more suffering in silence-- you will take command of your livelihood! _That is my only will!”_

But, in spite of his own vivacity, his own centrifugal charisma, Venereth is as weak as ever, unsteady in his own skin, cacophonous behind the bone of his skull. And so, as he turns away from the audience, and turns away from his Empire, it takes nothing more than a single, winded breath before he is collapsing atop the floor, sinking onto his knees with his head bowed and screaming. Screaming for blood, for pain, for… submission. _Screaming_ for the losses he has suffered and the weight of his inspired solitude, for everything he has lost and everything he has yet to gain…

An echo of heavy, patterned footfalls spills through the throne room. The steps are decisive, forthright as they near, and it is only moments before a pair of arms are wrapping around Venereth’s weakened, trembling form. A long sleeve, softer than the mangled fabric of his own robes, wipes the undignified mess of tears and saliva from his face, steady hands reaching forward to pull his head against a broad, armored chest as the Inquisitor falls to pieces.

“Shh, shh… I'm here. You've done _so well_ for yourself, my dear brother, haven't you? Why, look at all you've inspired… an Empire, a **philosophy** … shh, it’s alright, Irinei. You’ve been _so good_ , gotten so strong without me...”

“Isosei,” the man sobs erratically against the Consular’s robes, his hands balled into fists that tear demandingly at his brother’s figure. “I can't take it, I can't take it, I can't, they won't shut up, they never shut up…! Pfaask, I need to be _hurt,_ I can't… can’t control--”

“It’s alright, Venereth.” Isosei consoles his twin, arms around the other's back and skilled fingers rubbing circles into his tense shoulders, the motion soothing and empathetic even if somewhat demeaning. “I'm here now, aren't I? And I'm going to take care of _everything.”_

Venereth closes his eyes; nods a couple times, his energy vacant and dreary. “I-I thought you weren't coming back… I was… weak…”

“I would never leave you to suffer alone. Never. We're _twins,_ after all-- don't say that our fates were not woven into the same tapestry.” Isosei tugs himself away, untangling his body from Venereth’s shaking grip. “Besides, I found you a present while I was gone. You should be allowed to celebrate for taking the throne, shouldn’t you?”

“You...?” The Sith begins to ask, nearly perking up at the mere thought of present, he got me a present. He wipes the remaining tears from his eyes with a little irate sniffle, managing a crooked smile. “You were… thinking about me, while you were gone? Got me a gift like I wanted?”

“Always,” the former Jedi turns, gesturing to one of the six forms standing still behind him, a hooded, limp body supported between their frames. “You always professed how much you loathed slavers. I found you one to play with.”

“Can I torture him?” Venereth questions in a hiss, excitement visible in his eyes. “Can I _torture_ him and make him consume his own guts as they spill out of him? Or-- or, do you think I should switch around his hands and his feet? Brother, I can't choose. Help me choose.” He reaches for the Consular, grabbing aimlessly at his sturdier frame, nearly choked up with his own fervor.

Isosei merely ruffles Venereth’s hair, stilling him with a hand grasping the back of his neck, trying to force a sense of calmness back into the Sith’s dismantled brain. “Why don't you think on it? Go sit in your bedchambers. Lie down. Get some rest while I take care of matters here. Tomorrow you can do whatever you want. I'll even let you make that rug out of your enemies’ hair that you mentioned last we saw each other.”

“Yes, of course, my Mast--” Venereth begins, only to bite his tongue sharply at the realization of what he'd nearly said, his cheeks burning. Isosei glances to him in surprise, one eyebrow raised. It’s impossible to keep his concern from showing on his face at the way Venereth’s eagerness sparks at the mere utterance of the word, at the way his face has now grown dark with color in embarrassment. He’s as much of an open book as he’s ever been. “I apologize,  _brother._ My mind isn’t what it should be… I made… an error.”

“Is that what it was...?” Isosei murmurs, diverting his attention from his flustered twin altogether and turning his focus back to the throne, even as he hears Venereth give a muffled whine at the sudden loss of attention paid to his presence. “Well. I suppose it has been a lonely number of years for you, hasn’t it? We can… discuss the subject of my arrival later. For now, I think it best that you rest.”

“Isosei, I meant no harm--” Venereth weakly attempts to continue, taking a step backward at the sudden callousness of his twin’s behavior. “I-- I've been lost, you understand. Truly. I never meant you offense…”

“Please rest, Irinei.”

Isosei does not look up, not even as he hears Venereth’s footsteps running from the throne room, choking back wave after wave of his internal scorn.

“I fear my brother's weakness,” he speaks, finally, arms crossed as he stares numbly down at the Empire’s seat, high-backed and regal in a room that may once have been beautiful underneath the slew of bodies laid across the tile. “I fear his affection. Not simply for me… but for pain as much as another's presence. He is… lacking, in some manner. Too emotional. Too _naive,_ even with his inner spite. To call me ‘Master’ indicates a desperation for subservience-- reliance. We are siblings. Not master and apprentice. Nor anything else.”

Isosei turns to stare at one of his companions, posture guarded and rigid as ever. “Do you think I have indulged him in excess? Do you think I _hurt_ him?”

“I think Lord Nox is a complicated individual, Master. He seems to feel... everything. Not unlike yourself.”

“But he is not _disciplined_ ,” the younger twin muses, balling his hands into fists before extending his brutalized fingers, flexing them as best he can. “He is not an Emperor. Not alone, no matter how he might wish it…” He sighs, pressing his hands over his eyes. “You know your task. All of you. I will remain here until the situation has been stabilized. Irinei needs me. And… and I need him, as well. I fear my own health would not remain in good condition should we be long separated again.” Isosei takes a seat, frustrated, on the throne, leaning forward just enough that he can rest his head against his open palms, elbows resting on his knees. He closes his eyes, then opens them with a shout, cursing even his followers as the rage begins to coil in his gut again, pressing insistently at the back of his mind. “You have your orders. LEAVE. Leave me, you kriffing fools! Get out!”

He tilts his head back and closes his eyes.

_I need his pain to function. And Venereth needs my control._


End file.
